


Poison in the Cup

by Sauronix



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Explicit Language, Good Guy Gladio, Incidental Original Characters - Freeform, M/M, Mental Instability, Non-Consensual Drug Use, One-Sided Attraction, One-Sided Gladnis, Sexual References, Vomiting, references to rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-23 08:53:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14328951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sauronix/pseuds/Sauronix
Summary: Written for the following kinkmeme prompt:Ignis gets roofied at a bar or party. Gladio intervenes before any harm can befall him and sees him home safely.





	Poison in the Cup

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I have never been roofied nor known anyone who has been roofied, so this entire fic is based on accounts I read on the Google. Thank you.

Around nine o’clock, he loses track of Iggy. He isn’t worried—not at first, anyway. There’s no reason to be.  
  
They’re at the Griffin’s Claw, a swanky cocktail bar in the Financial District. Only the high class come here—lawyers, bankers, doctors, businessmen. It’s low-lit for mood, but there are no dark corners, no skulking creeps poised to swoop in on someone too drunk to say no. The patio outside is flooded with streetlights. Smokers stand under them in groups, chatting and laughing, wreathed in a smoky blue haze. Bad things don’t happen in places like this, with people like these.  
  
Gladio didn’t even want to come out tonight. Between dealing with Noct’s stubborn attitude toward training and getting chewed out by his dad for accidentally rear-ending some lady while driving his car, he’s had the week from hell. He just wanted to go home, crack open a beer, and sit by the fire to finish his novel. It’s not like anyone would’ve missed him, anyway. The Crownsguard throws a party like this one every few months—usually a bar crawl at some shithole dives in a rougher part of the city—and he’s been to most of them.  
  
But then he found out the Crownsguard had rented out the Griffin’s Claw, and better yet, that Iggy was planning on going. He couldn’t say no after that. Fuck, getting Iggy out of his apartment after nine on a Friday night only happens when the planets align.  
  
They split the cab fare to get here, and Gladio swears he can still smell the cedar and cinnamon of Iggy’s cologne, the citrus of his hair gel. He just wants to grab the man and breathe him in, to sit him on this bar stool next to Gladio and make himself the centre of Iggy’s attention all night.  
  
But they’re only friends, not an item, no matter how much Gladio wishes they were, so Iggy mingles without him.  
  
He wasn’t _planning_ to keep tabs on Iggy, but Gladio can’t stop himself from looking for him in a crowd, as if the sight of his face will satisfy the hunger gnawing at him. It helps, but one glance isn’t enough—it’s never enough. He stands at the bar, nursing his beer, and half listens to the new recruit talking to him—Petros? Paulos? Gladio can’t remember his name—as he watches Iggy make his way around the room. With his hair gelled up like an electrocuted chocobo, he’s impossible to miss.  
  
Gladio sees him smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling with genuine pleasure, as he greets Julian, one of the guys who was inducted into the Crownsguard at the same time as them. With their duties to Noct, they don’t have much occasion to interact with him, but they’ve always been on friendly terms. He’s a nice guy with a good sense of humour, and if Gladio were interested in anyone but Iggy, he might be tempted by Julian’s gorgeous blue eyes and tight ass.  
  
Fuck, maybe Iggy’s tempted. He watches, eyes narrowing, as Julian squeezes Iggy’s arm and offers him a purple drink in a cocktail glass, which Iggy accepts after a moment of protest.  
  
Normally, Iggy doesn’t do cocktails. He hates sweet things, preferring wines and the occasional beer instead. Gladio expects him to set the drink aside or hand it off to someone else once Julian has moved along, but Iggy takes a sip, still smiling as he settles into conversation with Julian.  
  
Bristling with jealousy, Gladio looks away and finds Petros—Paulos?—still yammering on, as if Gladio hasn’t been ignoring him for the past three minutes.  
  
“So I said to the Marshal, wouldn’t it make more sense to do drills in the morning? It’s too hot after lunch, and all I want to do is sleep.” The kid looks at him expectantly. “What do you think?”  
  
“Never really thought about it,” Gladio says. He drains his beer and sets it down on the counter, signalling the bartender for another. If this is what he’s gonna have to put up with all night, he’ll need more of a buzz. “I just do what I’m told.”  
  
“Seriously?”  
  
Gladio shrugs and tosses a few coins on the bar. “That’s my job.”  
  
“Shouldn’t a Shield think for himself?”  
  
“Look, Petros—”  
  
The kid frowns. “Paulos.”  
  
“Paulos, sorry.” Inwardly, Gladio cringes. It’s not like him to forget a name. He just can’t stop staring at Iggy, who’s laughing at something Julian said and completely oblivious to Gladio’s presence at the bar. “Look, yeah, it’s my job to act in the best interests of the prince, but as far as the Marshal’s concerned, I’m still just a grunt. Gotta learn to take orders before you can question ‘em.”  
  
“What makes you think I haven’t learned to take orders?” Paulos challenges.  
  
“You’re complaining about being too tired after lunch to do drills.” Gladio takes a sip of his beer and sits on the bar stool, turning to face the shelves full of liquor bottles so he doesn’t have to look at Iggy flirting with someone else. “The Crownsguard doesn’t give a shit how you feel. What’re you gonna do if the enemy attacks in the middle of the night? Hit snooze on your phone and go back to sleep?”  
  
Paulos flushes. “No, but drills are different from the real thing. Drills don’t matter.”  
  
“It all matters,” Gladio says. “If you think otherwise, maybe you’re in the wrong line of work.”  
  
Scowling, Paulos grabs his drink and stalks off, leaving Gladio alone with his beer. That’s fine by him. He didn’t mean to be harsh, but he’s busted his ass to get where he is, and listening to some green recruit bitch about drills ain’t improving his mood. He’s surrounded by other people, but tonight, he doesn’t want to talk to a single one of them. The only person he wants to talk to is Iggy.  
  
Too bad Iggy’s busy talking to someone else.  
  
He sips at his drink and scrolls through his emails. There’s a couple of junk messages from a gym near his apartment and a supplement store he buys from online, as well as a reminder from his dad about a family dinner at the Amicitia manor tomorrow night. Gladio replies to that one, assuring his dad that he’ll pick up some rolls and a case of beer on the way over. Then he reads a text from Noct begging him to reschedule tomorrow morning’s training session to Monday. Chuckling, he responds in the affirmative. It’ll keep Noct happy, and he’ll probably be too hungover to get to the Citadel that early, anyway.  
  
Slipping his phone back into his pocket, he chances another glance at Iggy, but Iggy isn’t where he was standing twenty minutes ago. The space has been filled by other people. Quickly, he scans the room, but he doesn’t see that shock of sandy hair, and he doesn’t see Julian, either. Fuck. Maybe Iggy’s gone to take a piss. He hopes that’s where Iggy is, because the thought of him ditching Gladio to go home with someone else is a kick in the balls.  
  
He downs the rest of his beer and makes his way to the men’s room. There’s one guy swaying at the bank of urinals, too drunk and in his own world to spare Gladio a look, but it’s otherwise empty. His stomach sinking, Gladio returns to the bar and catches a waitress as she passes by with a tray of empty glasses balanced on her shoulder.  
  
“You seen a guy with glasses and really tall hair?” Gladio asks. “He was wearing a purple dress shirt. Might’ve been with another guy, a blond.”  
  
“Yeah, they went outside a few minutes ago,” she says, nodding toward the door. “Your friend looked pretty wasted. I think he needed some fresh air.”  
  
_Wasted? On one drink?_  
  
Iggy doesn’t hit the bottle often, but he isn’t a lightweight.  
  
Stomach lurching, Gladio shoves his way through the throng of people and throws the door open, stepping out onto the patio. It’s empty, but when he looks to his right, he sees Julian and Iggy about halfway down the block. Julian’s got his arm slung around Iggy’s waist, and Iggy’s leaning heavily on his shoulder. A million possibilities bombard Gladio’s mind, none of them good.  
  
Maybe Iggy really is drunk, and maybe Julian really is helping him home.  
  
Maybe they’re going back to Julian’s place to fuck.  
  
Maybe Iggy really does want this, and maybe he really did leave Gladio behind without a word.  
  
Or maybe Julian slipped something into that purple drink.  
  
“Hey!” Gladio shouts.  
  
Julian glances over his shoulder, his eyebrows pulling into a frown when he sees Gladio. But he doesn’t try to make a run for it. He can’t, not with Iggy weighing him down. Gladio jogs over to them, placing a hand on Iggy’s arm when he reaches them. Iggy doesn’t even react, just lets his head loll on Julian’s shoulder, his eyes drooping closed.  
  
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demands.  
  
“I’m taking him home,” Julian says sharply.  
  
“You’re kidding me, right?”  
  
Julian glowers at him, but he doesn’t say anything more, only adjusts his arm around Iggy’s waist and keeps walking. Infuriated, Gladio moves to stand in front of him, blocking his way. From this angle, he can see how bad Iggy really looks—his mouth hangs open, his skin’s pallid, and his forehead glistens with sweat. Astrals, he looks like he’s just knocked back a fifth of whiskey.  
  
“What’s wrong with him?” he asks.  
  
“He just had too much to drink,” Julian says.  
  
“Give me a fucking break.” Gladio takes Iggy’s shoulder and shakes him hard enough to stir him. He blinks at Gladio with unfocused eyes, his pupils edging out the green of his irises. Fucking shit. Alcohol didn’t do this to him. “He’s coming with me.”  
  
“Fuck off, Gladio. Let me deal with this,” Julian snaps. He steps back as Gladio reaches for Iggy again, and looks him up and down with a heated disdain. “You’re the one who let him get plastered. Yeah, I saw you sitting at the bar, your nose in your phone, ignoring him. Why the hell would I trust you to get him home safely?”  
  
The venom in his voice catches Gladio off guard, enough so that he almost lets Julian pass without argument. Could it be possible he has it all wrong? Not about Iggy’s drink being drugged—it’s gotta be more than just booze that has him all fucked up. But what if someone else did it to him? Someone other than Julian?  
  
_Doesn’t matter. You can’t let him leave here with Iggy._  
  
Right. Even if Julian didn’t slip anything into Iggy’s drink, he’s still trying to take advantage of the situation. Gladio doesn’t believe for one second that Julian’s just gonna drop Iggy off at his apartment and leave it at that. Otherwise, why the hell would he be so insistent on taking Iggy home himself? No one’s that chivalrous, not when calling a cab would do.  
  
Scowling, Gladio puts a hand square in the middle of Julian’s chest when he tries to brush past him again, bringing him to an abrupt stop. Iggy gives a weak groan, his head rolling on Julian’s shoulder.  
  
“Sorry, but you’re not taking him anywhere when he’s like this,” Gladio growls. “I’ll make sure he gets home safely.”  
  
“And what’re you going to do when you get him there?” Julian challenges. “Put him to bed?” Then he smirks, his eyes glittering maliciously in the murky glow of the streetlight. “Or maybe you’re gonna fuck him yourself?”  
  
Gladio flushes, angry and shamed, his face and scalp prickling with heat. Just who the hell does this guy think he is? Unlike Julian and all the other scumbags like him, Gladio would never force Iggy into his bed, would never drug or hurt him to get what he wanted.  
  
And he’s wanted Iggy for a long time, wanted him so bad he aches.  
  
“Take your hands off him,” Gladio growls. He steps into Julian’s space, until he’s towering over the other man, using his full height to intimidate. “I’m not gonna say it again.”  
  
Julian looks him up and down again, his lip curling. Gladio crosses his arms over his chest and glares. He’s gonna beat this fucker’s face in if he doesn’t back off. As a rule, Gladio doesn’t instigate violence. Sure, he’s trained to fight, but his job is to protect, and he doesn’t like to throw his weight around unless he absolutely has to. But he’ll break that rule for this lowlife. He’ll do whatever it takes to keep Iggy safe.  
  
“Okay,” Julian finally says, his face twisting in disgust. “Fucking take him, then, asshole.”  
  
He shoves Iggy, and Gladio catches him in his arms, cradles him to his chest. Shit, he feels hot, like a rock baked in the fires of Ravatogh, even through his clothes. His dress shirt is damp with sweat, his cheek sticky where it rests against Gladio’s collarbone. And he’s trembling. Gladio slips an arm around his waist and holds him closer, barely aware of Julian storming away. He’s gotta get Iggy somewhere safe, and soon.  
  
Somehow, he manages to hail a cab. He bundles Iggy into the backseat and carefully leans his head against the cool window, and then he climbs in after him, instructing the driver to take them the thirteen blocks to Iggy’s apartment. As the car weaves through Insomnia’s Friday night traffic, he keeps one eye on Iggy, watching his breath fogging the glass.  
  
The other, he keeps on his phone. He scrolls through his contacts until he finds Domitia, one of the Crownsguard medics he’s friendly with outside of work.  
  
**Gladiolus (9:46 PM):** sorry to bug you this late, but i have a question  
  
**Domitia (9:51 PM):** Is this another booty call Amicitia? Cuz I’m on my couch with two cheeseburgers watching trash tv and I haven’t shaved my pits in 2 weeks.  
  
**Gladiolus (9:51 PM):** no  
  
**Gladiolus (9:51 PM):** i think one of my friends got roofied and i’m wondering if i should take him to the hospital  
  
**Domitia (9:52 PM):** Oh shit! Umm  
  
**Domitia (9:52 PM):** I don’t know a lot about roofies. Do you know what kind of drug it was?  
  
**Gladiolus (9:52 PM):** no idea  
  
**Gladiolus (9:52 PM):** he’s sweating a lot and can’t stand up  
  
**Domitia (9:52 PM):** Well that’s pretty par for the course but it shouldn’t be too dangerous unless he overdosed.  
  
**Gladiolus (9:52 PM):** and how am i supposed to know that  
  
**Domitia (9:52 PM):** You won’t know unless he goes into a coma.  
  
**Gladiolus (9:53 PM):** a coma? seriously????  
  
**Domitia (9:53 PM):** Yeah it can happen but he would’ve had to take a lot.  
  
**Domitia (9:53 PM):** Most people who use date rape drugs know not to use too much. I’m sure it’s fine but if he gets a lot worse I’d take him to the hospital.  
  
**Gladiolus (9:53 PM):** what does a lot worse mean  
  
**Domitia (9:54 PM):** Like if his pulse gets really low or he has problems breathing.  
  
**Gladiolus (9:54 PM):** fuck  
  
**Gladiolus (9:54 PM):** maybe i should just bring him to the hospital anyway  
  
**Domitia (9:55 PM):** I mean you can but they’ll probably just tell you to take him home and put him to bed unless he’s having a serious medical crisis.  
  
**Gladiolus (9:55 PM):** okay okay  
  
**Gladiolus (9:55 PM):** what else should i expect?  
  
**Domitia (9:55 PM):** He’ll probably barf a lot so get a bucket ready.  
  
_Great._  
  
He’s about to shoot her a response when the cab pulls up to the curb outside Iggy’s apartment complex. Sighing, Gladio pockets his phone, pays the driver, and heaves Iggy out of the backseat. He’s as limp as a sack of potatoes against Gladio’s shoulder, but he still manages to stagger down the front walk with Gladio, his legs as uncoordinated as a newborn spiracorn.  
  
“You doin’ okay there, Iggy?” Gladio asks.  
  
Iggy’s mouth works, but nothing comes out. It’s like his voice won’t cooperate, and all he can do is stare at Gladio with those wide eyes, his pupils unnaturally dilated. Shit. It’s almost creepy, the way he’s looking at Gladio—like there’s no recognition, no comprehension, like Iggy isn’t even in there.  
  
Gladio fishes in Iggy’s back pocket for his keys and lets them both into the building. He’s never given it much thought before, but now he’s glad Iggy’s building has an elevator. Carrying Iggy ain’t exactly easy—at six feet and somewhere in the neighbourhood of a hundred and eighty pounds, he’s a big guy—and dragging him seven floors up a stairwell would definitely be easier said than done.  
  
Getting him into the elevator and down the hall to Iggy’s apartment is a cinch in contrast. Almost as soon as they step inside, almost before Gladio gets the door closed behind them, Iggy doubles over and vomits. It splatters on the tile floor, purple and chunky with undigested food. Some of it gets on Gladio’s shoes. Domitia said this would happen, but Gladio still gags at the sour smell of acid, covering his nose with his arm.  
  
Fucking Six. This is what Julian wanted?  
  
_This?_  
  
Iggy retches, reaching blindly for the wall. Sounds like there’s gonna be a round two. Gladio hustles him into the bathroom around the corner, gets him on his knees, and holds his head over the toilet as he heaves again. He vomits three more times, until he’s bringing up nothing but acid, sobbing and trembling, a string of drool dangling from his bottom lip. Gladio sits on the edge of the bathtub and rubs his back as he slumps against the bowl, gasping for air.  
  
When he finally quietens, Gladio flushes the toilet and fills a glass of water from the tap. He has to help Iggy drink it, cupping the back of his head as he brings the glass to his lips, but Iggy swallows it all, rivulets running down his chin and dripping onto his shirt. Gladio mops him up and half carries him from the bathroom to the bed.  
  
Just like everything else in the apartment, the bed is tidy and perfectly made, military-style. Gladio lays Iggy down on the duvet, fully dressed with his shoes still on. He slips them off one by one, tucking them just under the bed, then moves to unbutton his shirt. At his touch, Iggy comes to, blearily grabbing for his hand.  
  
“I’m just gonna help you get this off,” Gladio says.  
  
Iggy looks at him, eyes wild and unfocused. “No.”  
  
“It’s wet, Iggy,” Gladio says soothingly, uncurling Iggy’s fingers and placing his hand back on the bed. “I’m not gonna hurt you, I promise.”  
  
Iggy shakes his head and pushes at him feebly. Not that it does him any good. Gladio’s too big, and Iggy’s to weak to move him.  
  
Still, Gladio holds up his hands and backs off. If Iggy doesn’t want to be undressed, he’s not gonna push the issue, not when Julian was planning to do this and worse. Not when Julian was gonna throw him on this bed like a rag doll—like a _thing_ , like a _toy_ —and rape him while he was too fucked up to defend himself.  
  
Just the thought of it makes Gladio clench his jaw, curl his hands into fists.  
  
“Okay, Iggy, you can keep it on,” he says.  
  
Iggy doesn’t answer. He’s out cold again, his head pillowed by the duvet, his mouth wide open. Gladio takes off his glasses, lifts his feet onto the bed, and rolls him onto his side, just in case he pukes again in his sleep. From the hall closet, he retrieves a wool blanket, which he drapes over Iggy, tucking it snugly around his shoulders so he doesn’t get cold in the night. He cleans the vomit off the floor in the front hall. Then he pulls out Iggy’s desk chair and sits next to the bed, watching him twitch and mutter in his sleep.  
  
It doesn’t look like Iggy will need to go to the hospital, but maybe there’s someone else he can call. Cor should know what Julian tried to do—not just because he drugged Iggy with the intention of assaulting him, but because he might’ve done it to someone else already. He might try it with someone else tomorrow.  
  
Gladio should’ve just punched Julian’s lights out while he had the chance.  
  
Iggy sleeps fitfully for an hour, then wakes to throw up in the wastebasket beside the bed. Gladio cleans him up and tucks him back in, checking his pulse—steady and strong—before they both settle down again for the night. This time, Iggy’s out cold. Gladio watches him sleep, his hair falling across his pale face, curled up in his own bed, safe and sound.  
  
But things could’ve been different.  
  
Something else might’ve transpired here if he hadn't stopped Julian in time.  
  
Maybe Iggy would be lying here alone right now, naked and used in his own bed. Maybe he’d wake up in the morning not knowing what the hell happened to him.  
  
With that disquieting thought, Gladio slips into a restless doze. 

  
*

  
A groan wakes him the next morning. He blinks and lifts his head, wincing as his sore neck cracks. He must’ve fallen asleep with his head hanging over the back of the desk chair. Watery sunlight filters through the blinds, heralding dawn. Iggy’s cross-legged on the bed, his face in his hands, the wool blanket pooled around his waist.  
  
Gladio sits up a little straighter. “You okay?” he asks.  
  
Iggy looks up at him sharply, only to wince and bring his head back into his hands, rubbing his temples. “I have a terrible headache.”  
  
“Figures, after last night.”  
  
“Did I get that carried away?” Iggy frowns, pausing, his forehead furrowing. Gladio can just see the gears turning in his head, can see the panic starting to ferment. Iggy’s always hated giving up control, especially of himself. “I can’t quite remember what happened. We were at the Griffin’s Claw…”  
  
“Yeah.” Gladio leans forward in his chair, clasping his hands in his lap as he studies Iggy. “What else do you remember?”  
  
Iggy closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, his hands curling on the blanket. “I remember arriving at the bar with you. We had a beer together, and then I mingled on my own for a while. Julian…” The furrows in his forehead deepen. “I believe he bought me a cocktail. I…can’t recall what we discussed.” He looks up at Gladio, bewildered. “Did I truly have that much to drink, Gladio?”  
  
How much should he tell Iggy? It would freak him out if he knew what Julian tried to do, if he knew he was that fucked up in front of all those people. And in the end, nothing happened—Julian buzzed off and Gladio got him home safely. Besides all that barfing last night and the hangover from hell, Iggy’s none the worse for wear.  
  
But he deserves to know.  
  
Gladio would want to know, if he was in Iggy’s place.  
  
“That was all you had to drink,” he says. “Just the beer and that purple drink Julian gave you. I saw it from across the bar.”  
  
“Then how…?”  
  
“I saw you talking to him, then twenty minutes later, you were pretty much dead to the world. You could hardly walk. Couldn’t talk. It wasn’t booze, Iggy.” Gladio watches Iggy’s eyebrow raise as comprehension dawns. “He put something in your drink.”  
  
“But why…?”  
  
“C’mon, Iggy, you know why.”  
  
Iggy shakes his head like he’s trying to dislodge an unpleasant thought. “But Julian wouldn’t…”  
  
“You were out cold on his shoulder,” Gladio insists. “I watched him carting you off down the street like you were some swooning damsel on the cover of a romance novel. He said he was gonna take you home and put you to bed, but I wouldn’t let him. I couldn’t let him.” He pauses, letting those words sink in. “You know what he was gonna do to you, Iggy.”  
  
Iggy shakes his head again. “You can’t say for sure—”  
  
“Yeah, I can.” _Don’t be so goddamn naive, Iggy._ “There are loads of people who want you. Just because you’re too busy with work to notice doesn’t mean it ain’t true. And not everyone gives a shit about your well-being. They’ll take what they want, even if you aren’t givin’ it freely.”  
  
Iggy doesn’t say anything to that, only balls the blanket in his hands, refusing to meet Gladio’s eyes. Astrals, Gladio just wants to get on the bed and hold him.  
  
“We have to tell Cor,” Gladio says.  
  
“No,” Iggy says sharply. “If Cor knew I allowed myself to be drugged while in public—”  
  
“Don’t give me that bullshit about your pride. It could’ve happened to anyone, and if you don’t tell Cor, Julian will probably try it with someone else.” When Iggy doesn’t respond, he adds, “I can tell Cor if you don’t want to. I saw it all.”  
  
“Gladio, thank you, but I—”  
  
“You threw up five times last night,” Gladio says. “I had to clean it up off the floor and your face. Look, Iggy, maybe Julian didn’t get to fuck you, but he sure as hell fucked you up, and I don’t wanna let that slide.”  
  
Iggy’s cheeks go a scalding red. “Five times?”  
  
“Yeah. I was worried you were gonna die. Domitia—you know, that Crownsguard medic?—she said people sometimes go into comas when shit like this happens.” Gladio pulls his phone out of his pocket and brings up Cor’s contact info. “So please let me tell the Marshal what happened.”  
  
Iggy holds his gaze for a minute, his hesitation plain as day on his face, before he finally looks away and nods.  
  
It’s the most hollow victory Gladio has ever won.  
  
He hits the dial key and brings the phone to his ear.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! You can also find me [on Tumblr](https://sauronix.tumblr.com/).


End file.
